


Pay Phones and Confessions (or, Simon's Terrible Attempt at a Boombox Moment)

by insertcreativeao3namehere



Series: blue is bram is blue [2]
Category: Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda - Becky Albertalli
Genre: (of sorts), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blue is Bram is Blue, Fluff, M/M, Missing Scene, What-Ifs (Plural), the reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 13:52:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13459611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insertcreativeao3namehere/pseuds/insertcreativeao3namehere
Summary: Blue is Bram is Blue, Part II. The Reveal, remixed.Part II in a series of alternative ways that Simon could have found out that Bram is Blue at different points in the novel. Each instalment can be read as a standalone.Simon finds the note with Bram's phone number a little earlier, when feeling up the Elliott Smith shirt while moping about being grounded.





	Pay Phones and Confessions (or, Simon's Terrible Attempt at a Boombox Moment)

**Author's Note:**

> So, I decided to turn this into a series of oneshots instead of oneshots as chapters. So, I wrote this a lot sooner than I expected. So also this veritably spiraled away from me in terms of length. I really had envisioned these as little snippets. Um. No one's complaining, right?
> 
> Takes place the Sunday after Simon has been grounded. Which also, if my calculations are correct, happens to be another important date...
> 
> Any words you recognise (i.e. that amazing note) belong to Becky Albertalli, not me.

  * **ii. simon finds the note right after being grounded, what excellent timing**



 

I still miss Blue like breathing. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still frustrated that he knows my identity and I don’t know his. But I desperately miss talking to him. I feel like I know who he is, even if I don’t know _who_ he is. And as much as a very big part of me desperately want to know who he is, another very big part just wants to go back to how things were.

 

I don’t know how those parts are divided, exactly. It’s not a very legitimate pie graph.

 

I don’t think that Martin is Blue, not really. Not just because I can’t bring myself to think that – that it was all a joke – but because I feel like I got to know Blue as a person, and whoever he is, he’s not cruel. I don’t believe that. I can’t think it.

 

And maybe Blue doesn’t really want to talk to me anymore now that he knows who I am. Maybe, whoever he is, he thinks I’m a bit of a troll. But maybe… maybe he’s also just scared. Being outed was an _awful_ feeling, even though I guess it is kind of a silver lining that Nick and Leah and my parents and the people who actually matter know now. I can understand that, even if his mom and dad know, he still might not be ready for the whole damn school to.

 

Especially not after some of the shit I’ve been getting.

 

Like, it’s been manageable. I keep trying to tell myself that it could be a _lot_ freaking worse. And it’s nice to know that I have people in my corner, even the unexpected ones. I mean, God, Taylor Metternich. I never would’ve expected that. But even with the reassurances I keep giving myself, it still just feels… shitty. Really shitty.

 

So, yeah. Blue could think I’m a troll, _or_ he could just not be ready to come out to the whole fucking universe. Like I was forced to. And if that’s the case, I _have_ to be understanding of that.

 

I’ve been having a pretty miserable weekend, just sitting around moping listlessly, sans any access to technology. Just generally feeling sorry for myself. Hey, at least I’m self-aware? It’s Sunday now, and we don’t go back to school until Tuesday because it’s MLK weekend. I _want_ to go back, strange as that is, because I’m going damn well stir-crazy not being able to talk to anyone outside Nora and my parents, who are still giving me what I like to think of (only in my head, of course) as the You Done Fucked Up Cold Shoulder. I haven’t been on the receiving end of it all that often, because _usually_ not much actually pisses them off. So I’m just kind of… laying on the bed, feeling lonely in exactly that way Blue described so beautifully, way back when in the Tumblr post that started it all. Snuggling up with the Elliott Smith shirt under the pillow.

 

I pull the shirt out again and sit up, smoothing it down on the bed in front of me. It really is a fucking awesome shirt. One of the best presents I’ve ever gotten, and I don’t even know who gave it to me. Well. I do, but I don’t.

 

I really wish I could thank him for it, like, properly. Did I even thank him for it? I can’t even remember. And I can’t even _check,_ because I don’t have my phone _or_ my laptop.

 

I trace over the image silhouetted on the front, and… what’s that? The edge of something jabs at my finger through the fabric. My heart starts to beat a little faster, just a little, like it’s warming up to something.

 

I reach under the neckline and detach it. A note. Another note on blue-green construction paper.

 

_P.S. I love the way you smile like you don’t realize you’re doing it. I love your perpetual bed head. I love the way you hold eye contact a moment longer than you need to. And I love your moon-gray eyes. So if you think I’m not attracted to you, Simon, you’re crazy._

 

And underneath that… _Blue’s phone number._

 

Okay, so. First things first: He _definitely_ doesn’t think I’m a troll.

 

I have to admit, I have this giddy unbidden smile on my face which would look _ridiculous_ if anyone could see me right now at just the thought of it. Blue finds me attractive. Blue knows who I am, and he finds me attractive. But, God, I also feel like an idiot. All this time I’ve been thinking he hasn’t answered me, that he’s cut off contact – and all along, if I’d just worn the damn shirt (the beautiful, amazing, best-present-ever damn shirt) I’d have _had his phone number._

And now I don’t even have _my_ phone. I can finally text him, but I can’t.

 

My mind is racing – figuratively speaking, of course. There’s no way I can wait until I have my phone back to text him. God, he probably already thinks I’ve lost interest. I can’t borrow someone else’s phone, because our messages are supposed to be private.

 

I could wait until we go back to school and use the school computers to email him and explain that I don’t have my phone? Yeah, because using the school computers went _so well_ last time. It’s what got me into this absurd mess in the first place. And besides, even though it’s been long enough already, I _really_ don’t want to make Blue wait even longer. _I_ don’t want to wait any longer, now that I have this, proof that Blue is into me for me, _and_ Blue’s phone number.

 

A plan, a very half-baked and probably terrible plan, starts to form in my head. My own 80’s movie, Emma Stone, boombox lawnmower moment. Except nowhere near that, because I’m nowhere near cool enough to pull that off, and besides I’m probably still invading Blue’s privacy by doing this.

 

He gave me his number because he wants to text. He still doesn’t want me to know who he is, and I don’t want to betray that, I really don’t. But even more than that, I don’t want him to continue thinking I’m not interested anymore. Because I am. I really, really am.

 

Even if I call him, I still won’t tell anyone who he is. I won’t push him into anything. I’ll keep his secret. I’ll do anything, I just want him to know that I still care. That sounds sappy even in my own heard, and part of me knows that I’m sort of rationalising away _finding out who he is,_ but. I really just want him to know that.

 

And texting him isn’t going to be an option for _two weeks._ And I really Do Not Want to use the school computers again.

 

So, I’m going to call him. It’s the only way to get a message to him without anyone else finding out, about him, and about us. I can’t use the landline to call him – my parents are home, and I’m not supposed to use it either. I’m not supposed to go out, but they’ll presumably keep on assuming that I’m moping in my room anyway. I’m not sneaking out my bedroom window, for one thing I’m not that stupid and I’d most definitely break something anyway. But if I sneak down the stairs without them noticing, and go out the laundry window…

 

My very own hopelessly pathetic discount version of a boombox moment. Which Blue might well hate me for anyway.

 

I grab my wallet, which should have enough coins for a pay phone call – I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever even _used_ a pay phone before, so I can’t know for sure. I tuck the blue-green square of construction paper into it, with that heartstoppingly amazing message and that precious phone number in pristine perfect handwriting, and put the wallet in my pocket. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

 

I sneak down the stairs, treading lightly. My parents don’t even look up from where they’re stationed in front of the living room TV. Like I said. The You Done Fucked Up Cold Shoulder. It’ll probably only last another day or two, but it’s coming in handy now, what with them happily not even acknowledging that I’m there.

 

I backtrack to the laundry. They’d obviously notice if I just up and walked straight out the front door. This is the best option, although knowing me, injuring myself is still a possibility even out the _ground floor window._

 

I open the window – thankfully it doesn’t have a screen, and opens straight out instead of levering on an angle. I clamber very ungracefully onto the washing machine, and then manoeuvre myself so my legs are dangling out. Definitely feet first, not face first. I lower myself out of the window carefully, until my feet meet the ground, and carefully twist my head out, managing not to bang it on the window frame. Success! I look back at the window triumphantly.

 

I’ve got no idea how I’ll get back in, actually, now that I think about it. Even if I do manage to clamber back in without banging into something loudly enough to draw attention, my parents could notice that I’m gone, or close the laundry window, or see me climbing back in… but there’s no turning back now.

 

I’ve never been this much of a risk taker. Never needed to be. And never had the impetus. Not that this is really that impressive of a risk.

 

Right. Off I walk, psyching myself up. I _think_ there’s a pay phone a couple of streets away. God, I don’t even know. And I can’t even look up directions. How did people function before cell phones?

 

Luckily, the pay phone is where I think it is. There’s really nothing more 80’s to me than a pay phone. When did its decline into disuse start? I don’t actually know. I step inside the booth and grab my wallet out. I stare at the note again, nerves steadily building, Blue’s words looping around in my head.

 

He thinks I’m attractive. He got me a _freaking Elliott Smith shirt._ I can’t believe he’s even real. But I also can’t believe that he wouldn’t be, because that alternative is worse, and he is too real to me for it to all be a joke. This has to be the right thing to do.

 

I stick in the requisite amount of coins, carefully punch in the number printed in Blue’s pristine handwriting, and as the number dials I can’t help but hold my breath.

 

The dial tone rings for long enough that I start to panic – maybe he won’t answer an unknown number? But then, the _click_ of an answer.

 

“Hello, Bram speaking,” says the gorgeous voice at the other end.

 

_Bram._

It’s Cute Bram Greenfeld. My head is spinning. Several long beats of silence pass, where I can’t get my head straight (hah, _straight)_ enough to say anything and I’m just breathing into the phone like an idiot.

 

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

 

 _Get it together, Simon._ “Yes. Shit. Uh. It’s Simon.” I pause, for just a moment, but before he can say anything, I plough on, determined to get out enough of a rambling explanation about why I’m calling him before he jumps to conclusions. “I’m so sorry, I only just found the note, and I’m grounded, I don’t have my phone or my laptop to text or email you or anything. I – this is a pay phone. I didn’t know what else to do.”

 

“Simon. Oh my God.” His voice sounds amazing. He doesn’t _sound_ angry? Blue. Bram is Blue. I didn’t see it coming, but it makes so much _sense._ My head’s still spinning.

 

“I – I hope you’re not mad. I know you didn’t want me to call. I just, I read the note and I didn’t want to not talk to you and I had no other way of talking to you.” I don’t sound anywhere near as smooth as I’d like to, as _Bram_ does. I’m breathless and rambling even more than I thought I would and barely even sure I’m making sense.

 

“Simon. It’s okay. I – wasn’t expecting it to be you when I answered the phone, I’m a bit thrown. But it’s fine, really, it’s okay that you called.” Okay, so his voice still sounds amazing, but he does sound a bit more flustered now. And not mad, he’s saying he’s not mad. That’s good.

 

“Who were you expecting?” I say, because I’m blanking and I can’t really think of anything better to say. There’s got to be a thousand things more interesting than that that I could’ve said.

 

“Um – my Grandma, actually. Her number’s unlisted. I, uh, she usually calls me on my birthday.”

 

Birthday? It’s Bram’s birthday. It’s Blue’s birthday. I stand there, dumbfounded, and then realise I haven’t said anything for another embarrassingly long stretch of time, so I scramble to blurt out: “Jesus, uh, happy birthday! Wow, what timing.”

 

He huffs out a laugh, a beautiful, honeyed sound. Is it cliché to describe a cute boy’s voice as “honeyed”? It probably is. That’s probably a fanfiction thing.

 

He’s known who I am for a while now, and by the sound of that note he’s… pretty okay with that. Which is… immensely flattering. I realise suddenly that I should probably make it clear that I definitely, _definitely_ feel the same way.

 

“Just so you know, Bram – Blue. Bram. Oh my God. Just so you know, I think of you as Cute Bram in my head.”

 

There’s another pause on the other end, long enough for the nerves to start ramping right up again, and then when he replies his voice sounds different, a little bit higher, not quite as collected and smooth but still just as gorgeous-sounding all the same. “Oh. Wow. That’s – good?” It’s not really a question, but it does go up a bit at the end.

 

I barrel on ahead, wanting to make it as clear to him as possible that this turn of events is more than welcome. “I’m really glad it’s you, I – I didn’t know but I’m definitely really glad. _Really_ glad. Like, really really. I want to emphasise that but I’m drawing a mental blank on words.” He laughs again, and my insides twist pleasantly at the sound. “And I – I’m sorry again, for calling. I promise I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to. I can not tell anyone, you shouldn’t have to have other people know before you’re ready.”

 

I can hear his breathing at the other end of the line, slightly unsteady, and it seems like he’s composing himself before he says, “Thanks. I think… I don’t know. Maybe. I’m – it’s okay that you know. It’s good. I don’t know how I would’ve managed to tell you, and I don’t think you were going to guess. You weren’t looking for it to be me.”

 

It takes a moment for his words to sink in, but my heart does this weirdly painful lurching thing at that. “I know I thought you were someone else, but I – that was a stupid guess. That was terrible Simon logic. I may not have guessed it was you, but I promise I’m still really freaking happy about the situation. I – ” I glance down at his note again, Blue’s note, _Bram’s note,_ Blue and Bram are one and the same and it’s amazing – and I take a deep breath, and I read his words back to him. “If you think I’m not attracted to you, Bram, you’re crazy.”

 

In a delightful moment of what might be irony, or possibly poetic justice, if I could properly distinguish the terms, the pay phone chooses that moment to cut out.

 

And, of course, as I frantically dig through my wallet, I realise I don’t have the correct denominations of coins for another call.

 

I lean against the pay phone door, breathing heavily as if I’ve just run a mile (or half a mile, hey, who am I kidding), and then jolt up ungracefully as it pushes open from my body weight. At least Bram isn’t _actually_ here to see that.

 

At least he knows now. He knows how I think of him – knows I think he’s Cute Bram. I can’t believe I told him that, actually, but it had to be reassuring, right? He knows I think he’s attractive. I told him I’m glad that it’s him.

 

And now _I_ know.

 

Blue is Bram is Blue is Bram is Blue.

 

I should probably get back to the house – ideally without my parents having noticed I’m gone. Even if I can’t get in contact with him again, he sounded happy. He seemed okay with the situation. He already knew who I am, and he _likes_ who I am. I’ll see him again on Tuesday, and oh, if it’s his birthday that means there’ll be sheet cake.

 

If it’s his birthday, I should really do something about that. My brain starts ticking.

 

I practically float all the way home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This probably still contains some Australianised spelling, although I tried to weed it out where I could and keep it consistent.
> 
> More instalments of this series are still to come, but probably not as (absurdly) quickly as this one! I'm about to move flats so things will be a bit hectic for awhile.
> 
> Can you tell I don't know anything about pay phones? I know about as much as Simon does.


End file.
